


Can you read my mind?

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adultery, Anal Sex, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Season/Series 03, Superman - Freeform, Wall Sex, fix-it-ish, johnlockchallenges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You will believe that a consulting detective and his doctor can fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [systemofhaimish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/systemofhaimish/gifts).



> Written for the johnlockchallenges Valentine's Day Exchange, for miseriathome (who I think is systemofhaimish on AO3) whose prompt was “John has super-human strength." This is where my head went. 
> 
> The title, for those who have not seen it, refers to a particular sequence and a song/theme from the 1978 "Superman" with Christopher Reeve and Margot Kidder. You don't have to have seen it to enjoy this (I don't think), but you may have even more fun with it if you have ;D

Sherlock Holmes paced restlessly on the rooftop of St. Bart’s Hospital. He turned, searched the sky once more for signs of…anything, and then resumed his course.

Checking his watch, he huffed in irritation. Long fingers nervously smoothed the lapels of his favourite blue suit. He cursed himself mentally.

Sherlock Holmes — the most respected (and feared) investigative journalist in the UK (and possibly several other places as well, though he hadn’t really checked since his last visit to Russia) — nervous about an interview?

It was absurd. The entire situation was absurd. And fascinating. He was fascinated. Had been since the incident with the cabbie.

Sherlock still didn’t understand how _he_ had known about the standoff with serial killer Jefferson Hope, or that Sherlock was about to take a potentially lethal pill (not _really_ — Sherlock was completely confident he’d chosen correctly). He didn’t know why that moment would warrant the presence of a hero who’d gone on that very night to rescue an airliner in distress over the Atlantic, foil a massive bank robbery in New York , and save thousands of people from an out-of-control fire in Mexico City.

But he’d come.

One minute, Sherlock had been holding the pill to his lips, the next he’d been staring into deep blue eyes and listening to a brief lecture about risk-taking. Uncharacteristically stunned, he’d handed the pill over without a word, watched the man pick up his suspect, and (with a nod and a smile) disappear through the open window. Sherlock had followed just in time to see them fly off into the night sky.

Fly.

By the time he’d finished looking around for more clues and made his way back to the college entrance, Lestrade had turned up.

Apparently, they’d found Jefferson Hope lashed to the New Scotland Yard sign about the same time Lestrade had received a visit from a man in a red cape who explained about Hope and directed the DI to Sherlock’s location.

Stories had begun to circulate about the fantastical…whatever he was. Everyone had a theory. Sherlock’s own editor had given him endless grief about the fact that their paper seemed to be so far behind on this particular story.

But Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time. For whatever reason, this unusual (improbable) man had come just to “save” him. That had to count for something.

So when the invitation arrived from a “friend” with an unknown number, Sherlock had not hesitated. He’d texted back his acceptance and suggested this meeting place.

Tonight, with any luck, he would have some answers.

Without thinking, he reached up to brush an errant curl from his forehead. “For god’s sake,” he sighed.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and began kicking at the gravel on the roof. He’d chosen the location with care: not his own home (a neutral meeting point was far preferable when dealing with a subject who might be a flight risk — literally), but a tall enough building to avoid a great deal of attention from the street. It was not a notable location, and the hospital no longer had an active A&E, so it was unlikely to be busy at this time of night.

Sherlock checked his watch. “Eight o’clock, he said. Eight o’clock, eight o’clock.” He spun and dropped inelegantly to sit on the ledge. “Some _friend_.” He flicked at a non-existent piece of lint on his sleeve. “How incredibly, predictably dull. Another promising case come to nothing.”

“Good evening, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet, his eyes searching the far side of the roof for the sound of the voice. “Uh, yes. Hello!” He bit his lip at the crack in his voice as he spoke. Like a giddy schoolboy.

The man on the far ledge studied Sherlock in the dim light cast by streetlamps, surrounding buildings and two utility fixtures near the stairs. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you have plans this evening?”

Sherlock glanced down at his suit. It was his best and his favourite; the one he knew most flattered him. Overdressed. He was overdressed. “What — oh, this old thing,” he forced a chuckle. “No...”

“Because it’s no trouble for me to come back later.”

“NO!” Sherlock lurched forward. “Don’t move!” He paused. Tentatively he took a few more steps toward the object of his curiosity. “That is…of course you can move. Just don’t…fly away, all right?”

The man in the cape had already started to turn, but stopped immediately. His body rotated back in Sherlock’s direction; as Sherlock got closer to his strange, brightly clad visitor he could see the man was smiling at him. It was a tolerant smile. A teasing smile. The smile of a man who had no intention of leaving, but wanted to be asked to stay.

Sherlock watched him, eyes narrowed as he looked for a way in. He started with the man’s hair and (handsome) face and moved slowly over him until he reached the red boots. _Red boots?_

Nothing.

He shook his head and tried again. Still nothing.

The man cleared his throat; Sherlock knew the silence that accompanied his observation (before deduction) would seem very odd (rude). Or so he had been told. Repeatedly.

But why couldn’t he see anything?

Sherlock started to speak but stopped. He relaxed a little, and felt a tiny frisson of his earlier excitement. This man had chosen him. Out of all of the reporters in the world, this man had chosen to speak to _him_.

“Sorry to drop in on you like this, Mr. Holmes,” the caped man began, jumping down off the ledge. “But I’ve been thinking there must be a lot of questions about me the people in the world would like answers to…” He strode confidently toward Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He began rifling through his pockets for his notebook and pen. While he used his phone for press conferences (when he could be bothered to attend them) and relied on his memory for details, he preferred hardcopy for interviews. “Sorry,” he apologised. He hadn’t found his notebook, but he had stumbled across a cigarette…and god knew he could use one of those as well. He tugged it from his suit jacket.

“You really shouldn’t smoke, you know, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock snorted, looking back to find that the man had almost reached the spot where he was standing. Oddly, he found himself looking…down. Why hadn’t he remembered that? “Don’t tell me: lung cancer, right?”

Sherlock placed the cigarette between his lips and tried to concentrate on getting it lit. He found he could not tear his eyes from the man in front of him, who was now staring quite pointedly at his chest.

“Well, not yet. Thank goodness.”

Sherlock was silent, the just-lit fag in his mouth now hanging from his gaping bottom lip. He puzzled over this for a moment then shook his head. He dropped the cigarette to the rooftop and stamped it out. With little additional fuss, he managed to locate his notebook and pen and opened to an empty page.

“Would you…would you like a drink?” Sherlock gestured to the two folding chairs and small basket (with wine and glasses) he’d set by the light nearest the entrance to the stairs. Honestly, it never would have occurred to him to bring provisions. If his busy-body brother hadn’t somehow managed to find out about this meeting and had his assistant turn up with everything (along with a note urging Sherlock to “learn as much as you can, for the sake of national security”), they would most likely be conducting the interview sitting cross-legged on the tar and gravel roof.

“No, thank you,” the man replied, politely, one hand raised. “I never drink and fly.” Sherlock watched as his subject regarded the rest of the rooftop. “Nice place.”

“It, uhm, yes. I come to Bart’s fairly often, for work,” Sherlock muttered, trying to settle himself into one of the chairs. “One of the pathologists is moderately helpful. The roof is quiet. I can think here.” He nodded at the seat across from him. “Shall we?”

The man tugged his cape out of the way and sat, knees spread wide, elbows on armrests and fingers laced together, resting his hands on his golden belt. Golden belt?

“Let’s see,” Sherlock started, clearing his throat and trying not to think about the figure-hugging nature of his companion’s outfit, complete with. Very. Red. Pants. On the outside. “Why don’t we start with your vital statistics _areyoumarried_?”

The man laughed — just a short burst. He was still smiling when he said, “No. No, I’m not.”

“No,” Sherlock made a note. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

The man shook his head. “Do you?”

“What? Oh. No. Not my area.”

“I see.”

“Do you have a, uhm, boyfriend?”

“No. But if I did, Mr. Holmes, you’d be the first one to know about it.” He lifted his hand to brush his fingertips over his lips. And, Sherlock thought, to try and cover a very flirtatious grin.

Sherlock swallowed hard and glanced down at his notebook. The pen had wandered right off the edge of the page. “How old are you?”

“Over 21.”

“Oh, of course,” Sherlock nodded, looking up once more. “You don’t want anyone to know…” The man tipped his hand to acknowledge that Sherlock had hit the mark. “Fine. Yes. And how big are you?”

There was a beat during which Sherlock realised what he’d said.

“I-I mean…how _tall_ are you?”

“Not as tall as people might expect,” the man replied cheekily. Sherlock found the corner of his mouth tugging up as their eyes met.

“Yes. I had thought…never mind. I can fill in with my own estimate. And what do you weigh?”

“About seventeen and a half stone.”

“Seventeen and a half…?” Sherlock’s tone was incredulous.

“It’s a gravity/density thing,” the man shrugged.*

Sherlock frowned at this, but returned to his original line of questions. He would revisit the subject, though. For science. “I assume, then, that the rest of your…bodily functions are…normal?”

“Sorry — beg your pardon?”

The caped man leaned in. So did Sherlock.

“Well, putting it delicately…” Sherlock began.

The man leaned in closer. He was within touching distance now. That strong jaw with the little cleft in the (stubborn? resolute?) chin. The firm mouth. And the eyes. _Who had midnight blue eyes?_

“Do…”

“Yes,” the man encouraged, now staring intently at Sherlock’s face so close to his own.

“Do you…eat?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, I do.” the man replied, sounding a little puzzled. He cocked his head to one side. “When I’m hungry.”

Sherlock blinked several times, making every effort to extract himself from the electricity of his subject’s gaze. “Oh, you do. Yes. Of course you do.” He giggled as he stood then winced, hardly able to believe that he was still Sherlock Holmes.

He began to move away from the chairs, in part to give himself some distance from the inexorable pull of the man behind him. And (if he were completely honest) because he wanted to see if his subject would follow.

He did.

Sherlock cleared his throat again. “Is it true you can see through anything?”

“Yes, I can. Pretty much.”

“And you are totally impervious to pain?” Sherlock continued his leisurely stroll across the roof, passing behind one of the air vents.

“Well, so far.”

Sherlock turned suddenly, inspired. “What colour are my pants?”

“Hmmm.”

Sherlock looked up to find his subject looking somewhat perplexed.

“I — was that an inappropriate question? Have I embarrassed you?”

“Oh, no. No,” the caped man insisted, unfazed. “Not at all. It’s just this vent. It must be lined with lead.”

“Given its approximate age, I would say so,” Sherlock agreed. “Problem?”

“Uhm, well, you see, I sort of have difficulty seeing through lead.”

“Oh. That’s interesting.” Sherlock made a note of this tidbit and turned to continue his pacing. “Do you have a first name?”

“What, like, Ralph or something?”

“Oh, no, I mean like…”

“Pink!”

“What?” Sherlock spun, eyes wide. He’d strayed several steps away from the vent now.

The man smiled knowingly at him, raising his brows as he glanced in the general vicinity of Sherlock’s crotch. “Pink,”** he repeated sweetly.

Sherlock felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. Mortified, he stepped back behind the relative safety of the lead-lined vent.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. I didn’t mean to embarrass _you_.”

“You didn’t,” Sherlock snapped, suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable. No one made him feel vulnerable. Vulnerable was what _he_ did to other people. He huffed, attempting to resume his previous tack. “What is your background? Where are you from?”

“That is a bit difficult to explain, actually,” the man started. Hands clasped behind his back, he began to stroll back toward the roof ledge. He stared up into the night sky. “I’m from pretty far away. Another galaxy, as a matter of fact. I come from a planet called Krypton.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock’s mind leapt immediately to the periodic table. “Are you having me on?”

The man smiled at him, clearly comprehending his train of thought. “Of course not. It’s just a coincidence.”

Sherlock made an impatient noise. The universe was rarely so lazy. He was scribbling himself a reminder to research the isolation of krypton and see if there was any kind of possible connection when he realised that his guest was now standing right in front of him. So close. Just looking at him.

It was unlikely, but somehow Sherlock felt as though he was running short of air. He could smell…well, he wasn’t quite sure what, but it was intoxicating. He snuck another glance at his interview subject, still waiting patiently for Sherlock to finish jotting in his notebook. Looking out from under his lashes, Sherlock asked softly, “Do…do you like pink?”

Given his slightly startled expression, Sherlock supposed this question came as a bit of a surprise to the caped man. He recovered quickly, though — his eyes brightened as he looked up into Sherlock’s face.

“I like pink very much, Sherlock.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the crooked smile that tugged at his lips as he stared down at…what should he call him? “Why are you?” Sherlock mused out loud.

“I’m sorry?”

“I mean why are you _here_? There must be a reason for you to be here.”

“Now I thought, given your reputation, you might have worked that out already.”

“I have some theories,” Sherlock bluffed. “I thought this might be simpler.”

“I’m here to fight for truth and justice.”

“Wha — oh, please,” Sherlock scoffed. “You’d end up fighting every elected politician in the world, never mind the villains!”

“You don’t really mean that.”

“Based on what I have learned from my brother? Believe me, I do.”

Sherlock’s busy brain began to whirl with possibilities. He wandered away again, muttering to himself. He was barely aware that his interview subject was calling his name.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?”

“Hmmm? What?” Sherlock turned and their eyes met once more.

“I never lie,” the man said solemnly.

The cynic in him wanted to say something pithy, something scornful and derisive. But Sherlock found — staring into the handsome, strong, kind face in front of him — that he could not.

“Oh.”

He fidgeted with his notebook for a moment. Finally, he found a new thread. “Ah! Just how fast do you fly, by the way?”

“Oh. I don’t know, really. I’ve never actually bothered to time myself.” The man stepped in close again. “Say, why don’t we find out?”

“And how do you propose we —” Sherlock stopped dead. “Are you suggesting that we — that I...fly?”

“I’ll be handling the flying, if that’s all right with you,” the man clarified. “Take a ride with me?”

“This is utterly preposterous,” Sherlock rumbled irritably. The whole interview had gone off the rails somewhere. He’d lost control — with the blushing and the pink pants and far-off planets…he would not be made a fool of. He started to walk away.

“Wait! Where are you going?” His guest had followed him.

Sherlock stopped and faced him. The man’s expression was the picture of sincerity. _Well, he did say he couldn’t lie…_

“Don’t you want to come with me?”

With the unusual man (alien?) so close, hand outstretched in invitation, Sherlock could feel his resolve slipping away once more. This unexpected being was so unique, so…unfathomable.

And the notion of floating through the air wrapped in his arms seemed, suddenly, like the most appealing idea Sherlock had ever heard.

He set his notebook on his chair and cautiously placed his palm in the offered hand. Warm, strong, fingers (short, dextrous, and with close-clipped, meticulously kept nails… _Oh!_ ) closed around his own.

The man led him out toward the middle of the roof.

“Cold,” Sherlock blurted.

“Hmmm?”

“I — won’t I be cold?”

“Don’t worry,” the man said, stopping and drawing Sherlock toward him. “We’ll be warm enough.”

Sherlock hesitated, glancing at his chair, where his beloved Belstaff coat was draped. “I think I should. Just in case.”

The man smiled at him (indulgently, Sherlock thought) and nodded. He waited patiently while Sherlock shrugged into the heavy wool and flipped the collar up.

The man snickered.

Sherlock’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Nothing,” his visitor said gently. “Ready?”

Sherlock found his hand recaptured and his body dragged right close to the shorter man. He stared down into the deep blue eyes. “Lestrade says you’re just a figment of someone’s imagination. Like Peter Pan.”

“Is Lestrade your boyfriend?”

“Lestrade? No. He’s a copper — never mind. Not important.”

“Peter Pan, huh?” The man smiled up at Sherlock even as he wound one very powerful arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Peter Pan flew with children, Sherlock. In a fairy tale.”

And then, just like that, they were off.

Sherlock prided himself on his composure, in his ability to read any situation and be utterly prepared for any probability, but this?

As his feet left Bart’s rooftop, he felt his heart in his throat. Gravity. He was defying gravity. And it felt wonderful.

It was a mostly clear night in London. The air was crisp for early fall, but not yet cold. Sherlock drew in a lungful of air — taking in the familiar essence of his beloved city as he passed up and through it. He glanced around, marvelling at the view. He loved rooftops for the vantage point they provided. The perspective. This, though, was something else again.

London, his London, was in all her glittering glory this night, and she was beautiful.

As they cleared the tallest nearby building, that very strong arm tightened about his middle, pulling him long against the caped man’s side as they levelled off horizontally — hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, with Sherlock’s coat fluttering out behind them like his companion’s cape. It was the closest Sherlock could ever remember being to another living soul. He snuck a glance at the man’s face to find that he was being watched. He nodded, indicating that he was quite well. The man chuckled and stretched out his left arm in front of them.

Sherlock relaxed into the man’s embrace, suddenly conscious of how well this stranger had been able to read him. Could see through him. The thought crossed his mind — albeit momentarily — that perhaps, as well as seeing into lungs, this man could see into hearts and minds as well.

Sherlock chided himself. _Ridiculous._

He snuck another glance as he stretched out his own right arm, feeling the cool air passing over and under it. The man nodded and grinned at him. They flew northwest, over Regent’s Park, and then looped back to take in Hyde Park and Buckingham Palace. 

Sherlock gasped as he looked straight down for the first time. The people below them were so small, becoming indistinguishable specks as they rose higher and higher. It was exhilarating!

Finally, they flew out over the Thames, circling over Westminster and the London Eye. Sherlock’s heart began to thunder in his chest. He hadn’t felt this alive in…well, as long as he could remember.

They soared heavenward, finally drifting up and over a thin wisp of cloud. Sherlock eased away from the strong body beside him, testing the strength of their connection as he stretched out on his own. Soon, he was grasping only the forearm of his companion. Then his wrist. Then his hand…what if…

Falling. He was falling! Hurtling toward the earth. He must have shouted. Must have, because suddenly there he was. His caped stranger. His _friend_.

He caught Sherlock effortlessly, both arms wrapped around him and holding him tight to his chest. They drifted down, slowly, slowly, slowly.

Sherlock could not tear his eyes from the face of the man who held him.

He had no memory of the return to Bart’s, but soon enough he was being set down on the gravel rooftop. Spellbound, Sherlock clung to the strong shoulders, their faces only centimetres apart.

“We forgot to time that,” the man said softly.

“Oh.”

“Maybe next time?” The caped man began to pull away.

Sherlock shook off his reverie, released the man and began to back away. “Yes. Of course. Next time. Yes.” He cleared his throat and tugged at his coat cuff. “Thank you, by the way, for the…thing…you did. That was…good.”

“You’re welcome,” the man said. He stepped up onto the ledge nearby. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am. I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

The man nodded. “Well, then. Good night.” And he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *, ** See the end of Chapter 3 for notes :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returning home from his meeting with the mysterious caped man, Sherlock receives a bit of a shock.

Sherlock was still in a daze nearly forty minutes later when he returned home. He turned the key in the latch and let himself into 221B Baker Street.

It was a pricier flat than he could afford, being right in the heart of town, but the landlady was a friend and owed him a debt of gratitude. Thus far, he’d managed to scrape by, but it was becoming more difficult. He knew it was likely he was going to have to look for a flatshare.

He was hanging his coat on a hook in the vestibule when the door to Mrs. Husdson’s flat opened.

“Sherlock Holmes, where have you been?”

Sherlock turned, confused by the motherly woman’s sharp tone.

“I’m hardly in the habit of providing you with my schedule, Mrs. Hudson,” he replied languidly.

“But Sherlock,” the woman admonished, “you’re _late_.”

“Late? Late for what?”

“Your friend has been here at least twenty minutes,” Mrs. Hudson whispered as Sherlock neared the door to her flat.

“My _friend_?” Sherlock froze as the door to his landlady’s flat opened a little further. He gasped. “ _You_ …”

“Dr. Watson said you were supposed to meet at the hospital, but he must have missed you. I didn’t think you’d mind if he waited for you here.”

Sherlock sputtered a little, still in shock. “Wa-Watson? What…?”

The short man with the sandy-grey hair and the sensible navy jumper smiled warmly as he stepped out into the entryway.

“It’s John, please,” the doctor said to Mrs. Hudson. He dipped his chin in Sherlock’s direction then. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I did get your reply to my invitation…”

“ _Your_ invitation?”

“Well, yeah. You said you wanted to meet at Bart’s? I thought I’d find you in Molly’s lab. I waited for ages, but…well, Mike Stamford said he didn’t think you’d mind if I stopped in here. He thought you’d probably forgotten. Said you never were very good about this sort of thing.”

“W-WHAT?” Sherlock sputtered again.

Dr. John Watson was looking coy. He took a few steps forward, reaching out to Sherlock. “Would you still like to —?”

“Y-YOU! YOU! You’re…HIM! He’s…” Sherlock was incapable of forming sentences. He couldn’t process; it was far too much information.

John Watson chuckled, winking at Mrs. Hudson. “I think maybe I’ve broken him,” he teased. “Perhaps I’ll just take him upstairs and make him a cuppa.”

“Aw, of course,” Mrs. Hudson answered with a knowing smile. “I’ll let you two get on. Let me know if you need anything. He doesn’t usually have any milk.”

“That’s very kind,” Dr. Watson said cheerfully, steering a stunned Sherlock toward the stairs.

Sherlock was not inclined to struggle (in truth, was far too shocked to do so), but it became obvious immediately that he was going upstairs whether or not he wanted to. The hand in the centre of his back was…well, it was a _superhuman_ strength, wasn’t it?

He stumbled at the first landing, his mind far too occupied with trying to find answers to be bothered with the movement of his feet. Instantly he was swept up and cradled by strong arms that held him tightly to a surprisingly solid chest.

When they stepped into his flat, he was set back on his feet, ever so gently. He stood staring at the floor as the doctor — as _he_ — turned to close the door behind them.

The man was standing in front of him. Sherlock was shaking his head as he allowed his eyes to trail up from the conservative loafers, over the neatly pressed chinos, and the plaid shirt and jumper combo. Finally he stared into the now-familiar blue-grey eyes hidden behind thick-framed glasses.

“So,” John Watson said with a smile.

“Are you completely out of your mind?”

“Possibly. I’m in love with you, after all.”

“Is THIS your idea of a disguise? THIS??” Sherlock spun, arms waving. “This isn’t going to fool ANYONE!”

“Fooled you.”

“Oh, hardly!” Sherlock sneered.

“No. I suppose not,” John agreed, his smile still very calm. “You didn’t pay Dr. John Watson any attention at all, did you? I’m boring.”

“That’s not fair. We’ve met…” Sherlock stopped and searched his memory to get the number right. “Twice —”

“Four times.”

“Mike introduced you to me out of politeness and I was busy with a case. And then you were just…around. I didn’t have time —”

“You never remembered my name. You actually did call me boring once.”

Sherlock released a breath in a rush. “Wh-but you...you were just…but now…”

Sherlock trailed off, his eyes widening and his mouth dropping open.

“You just caught up, didn’t you,” John chuckled. “Thought I might have slipped that past you. Guess I should know better. You’re the brilliant Sherlock Holmes — the world’s most insightful, most devastatingly deductive investigative journalist.” John watched him with soft eyes full of tenderness and admiration. And longing.

“But…why?”

“Why do I love you?” John shrugged. “Lots of things. Your smile. The real one is rare, but I have seen it and it’s pretty amazing. And your eyes have captivated me since that first meeting in Molly’s lab. But mostly it’s your heart. The first time I saw you, we were in Indonesia, with the flooding. You were reporting on the misuse of funds donated to the three biggest aid NGOs; I was…well, I’d been busy _during_ the flooding, obviously. But afterward, I was working in one of the camps for the people who’d been displaced. You were so passionate, so ruthless in your pursuit of truth. Of justice.”

Sherlock flinched a little at the repetition of the altruistic words. “But I don’t —”

“I know you always say you aren’t doing it because you care,” John acknowledged, reaching up a tentative hand to brush his knuckles over Sherlock’s cheek. “But I see through you.” He smirked a little. “Literally.”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Just hear me out,” John asked. He grasped Sherlock’s hand between both of his own. “Sherlock Holmes, you are a great man. And you have such potential to be a good one.”

“That’s…that’s what Lestrade says.”

“I like Greg,” John grinned. “He and I haven’t quite come to an understanding yet, but I’m sure we will.”

“Who’s Greg?”

“Are you seriously telling me you don’t know DI Lestrade’s first name?” John asked, horrified. “You’ve been working with him for years!”

“I have to delete _something_ ,” Sherlock muttered.

John started to laugh, and it was a wonderful, rich sound. Sherlock watched him, utterly transfixed. This man, this _hero:_ how could he possibly love someone like Sherlock Holmes?

“You are amazing,” John said at last. “You are absolutely, bloody amazing.”

Sherlock kissed him. He didn’t know where he got the nerve, but he could no longer resist. He wrapped both arms about the shorter man’s neck and slanted his mouth over John’s; he did not wait for invitation, but rather plunged his tongue between John’s slightly parted lips and claimed him.

John grunted his approval and dragged Sherlock closer, tighter, moulding their bodies together. One hand stroked over a lean hip, the other fisted into the curls at Sherlock’s nape and held him fast.

Sherlock could not help the plaintive noise emanating from his throat as John plundered his mouth. God, he wanted. He had never, ever in his life wanted another being the way he wanted this man.

John withdrew gently, trailing a few extra kisses across Sherlock’s cheeks before drawing the man down toward him so their foreheads touched. They rested there, fingers still clinging, bodies pressed together so that there was not a breath of air between them.

“You…you…” John panted.

“Yes?” Sherlock stroked over the man’s shoulders.

“I want you.” John searched Sherlock’s face.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. “But…”

“Hmmm?”

“Are _all_ your bodily functions…normal?”

John began to chuckle at that. He kissed the end of Sherlock’s nose. “You know, this is not how I expected tonight to end,” he murmured, taking one of Sherlock’s hands in his own and rubbing absent-mindedly at the back of it with his thumb.

“Oh? And what did you expect?”

“I wasn’t sure you would be interested. In this. With me.”

Sherlock pulled back. “Oh, but I am.”

“It’s a lot to take on,” John cautioned. “Especially if we…that is, if this were to continue, you know, in the long term.”

“I cannot imagine why we wouldn’t,” Sherlock said solemnly.

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?” John teased.

“Swear to god,” Sherlock replied. He frowned at John, though, as he looked him up and down once more. “This is ridiculous, though. This won’t do at all.”

“Why?”

“Honestly: you unslick your hair and put on a pair of _spectacles_? Who ISN’T going to see right through that? Everyone will know —”

“Everyone will continue to see a mild-mannered, medical school instructor who frequently misses his classes because of his volunteer work with Doctors without Borders. Mike is very kind and covers for me when I need to be…away.” John smiled again. He allowed his fingers to trail down over Sherlock’s chest. “I’ve lived on your planet a long time, Sherlock. I’ve learned I can’t be everywhere. I’ve learned I can’t influence the path your species will take. And, like you, I’ve realised that human beings don’t notice a lot of things. I think it’s a coping mechanism; I’m guessing you see it as something maybe a little more sinister.”

“Obviously.”

“Trust me, no one will look at Dr. John Watson and see —”

“Superman.”

“Sorry?”

“Superman. It’s the name I’ve decided to give you,” Sherlock said smugly. “It’ll be going out in the special feature I’m doing for The Times on Sunday.”

John snickered. “Superman. That sounds awfully —”

“Majestic?” Sherlock said hopefully.

“Pretentious,” John said, his lips pursing. “But it’s fine. Other people can call me whatever they’d like.” He’d resumed stroking his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles. Sherlock gazed down at their joined hands.

“W-what would you rather be called?”

“By you?” John moved his hand from Sherlock’s hip to rest on the crest of the taller man’s bum. “When we’re alone?”

Sherlock obliged and allowed his body to once again press against the (very) solid form of his mild-mannered doctor. He reached up and removed the heavy, horn-rimmed glasses, dropping them unceremoniously to the coffee table.

“Easy with those,” John chided softly. “I need them, you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Focus, please. What do you want me to call you?”

“Ideally?” John sighed a little, pressing firm lips against Sherlock’s throat. He pulled back then, just enough to look Sherlock in the eye. “My love.”

Sherlock tried to contain the shiver that rippled down his spine at the softly spoken words. The most dangerous words he had ever heard. And yet, somehow, he was really quite okay with them.

He leaned in once more and John met him halfway.

Their lips met in a sweet, gentle caress. They nuzzled at one another, licked and tasted. It was achingly incendiary. John was sucking on Sherlock’s tongue and one thumb was rubbing mercilessly over Sherlock’s nipple through his shirt. Sherlock moaned.

“Should we…?”

“Please,” John begged.

“I don’t know if I have…anything.”

“Oh, god,” John groaned. He dropped his forehead to Sherlock’s collarbone. “All right. That’s fine. We just…”

“WAIT!”

Sherlock bolted for the kitchen. He tore through the pile of boxes stacked on the counter until he found what he was looking for, returning to the sitting room with a triumphant grin.

He handed the small bottle to John. The doctor checked it over and nodded.

“Do I want to know why you have medical lubricant in the kitchen?”

“Experiment.”

“No condoms?”

“Not that kind of experiment,” Sherlock frowned.

“Okay,” John sighed. “It’s fine. We don’t need to rush into —”

“Oh, for god’s sake. I…don’t. You?”

“Not without protection. Never.”

“Good. Sorted.” Sherlock reached for him.

No persuasion was required. 

John captured Sherlock’s mouth again as he backed the taller man toward the wall. “You are extraordinary,” he panted between kisses. “Brilliant.” Another kiss. “And so, so beautiful.”

Sherlock melted at the praise. He was used to names, but they were rarely ever kind, let alone flattering. His body was stirring in ways he had not allowed it to in years (decades, if he were honest). The firm swell of an erection swiftly tightened his trousers and incited a subtle press of his hips against the wonderfully strong body that held him.

John noticed, and his own arousal was hardly discreet. He massaged Sherlock’s bottom with both hands now, pressing and sliding their bodies together against the resistance of the wall behind them as he sucked a mark into Sherlock’s lovely pale throat. “I do want to be inside you.”

“Yes. _Yes_ ,” Sherlock breathed. He tugged at John’s hair until the man released the soft skin of his neck and consented to be kissed.

Sherlock kissed him ferociously, desperately. He was burning as he never had before. The firm press of unyielding and yet utterly gentle hands as John deftly removed his shirt and then his trousers left him breathless.

“Sherlock,” John gasped. He smoothed his hands over the feast of exposed flesh. “I want to take my time. Where is your bed, love?”

“No.” Sherlock could barely contain the relentless hunger threatening to consume him. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I can last…”

John studied him carefully, himself only half undressed — Sherlock had managed to fumble open the buttons of the man’s shirt, but only to find another barrier.

“Shhh,” John soothed. “It’s all right. We have all night. Whatever you need. Let me take care of you.”

“Fuck me. Right now. Please.”

“Here? Are you sure?”

Sherlock wiggled free of John’s embrace and immediately shimmied out of his pink trunk pants.

John stared, moving to strip his own shirt and trousers away as he did. “Sherlock, I have never seen anything as exquisite as you are.” He slid a hand down through the nest of dark curls at Sherlock’s groin and wrapped his fingers around the taller man’s prick. He stroked gently. “Does that feel good?”

Sherlock gasped and threw his head back, both hands carding into John’s hair. “John…”

John was peppering his face and neck with kisses. Sherlock was thrusting into his lover’s fist, quickly growing restless.

Sherlock gasped as John’s fingers pressed into his perineum and then slid back over the length of his cock to tease around the head. “Can’t wait. Please.”

There was a tick in John’s jaw as he wrapped himself around Sherlock’s body and captured his lips. In one effortless move, Sherlock felt himself lifted from the floor by one of John’s powerful arms and pressed even more firmly into the wall. He did not hesitate to wrap his legs around his lover’s waist, though in truth the additional support was not needed. He felt as utterly weightless as he had in the air only an hour past.

He keened a little as his mouth was released, chasing John’s lips.

“Hang on, love,” John said. He pressed the bottle of lube into Sherlock’s hand. “Open”

Sherlock snapped the lid open and poured some of the viscous liquid out into John’s waiting hand. He held his lover’s gaze as he spread the lube around and carefully coated each finger.

He curled to reclaim John’s kisses as the hand disappeared beneath him. He gasped against his lover’s lips as the first finger began to tease at his hole. It fluttered there, gently massaging for what felt like an age.

Finally, finally, John began to slide the slick digit inside him.

“Fuck!” Sherlock went boneless in John’s powerful embrace. He managed to keep his ankles locked behind John’s back, but it was a very near thing as the man’s finger slid slowly past sensitive nerve endings. “John, oh, god, oh, god!”

“I know, love,” the shorter man growled. He held Sherlock fast as he fingered him. “Can’t rush this.”

“Can,” Sherlock protested. “Must!”

Another finger joined the first, stretching Sherlock near to the point of discomfort. He dropped his cheek to rest against John’s head. “Oh, John.”

“Shhhh.”

A third finger breached him long minutes later, but by then he was writhing. Sherlock pressed down into John’s hand, greedy for the feeling of being filled. “Please,” he whispered into John’s ear.

The fingers withdrew and Sherlock could feel the blunt tip of a fat cock rubbing against his entrance. John eased into him in one gentle stroke. Sherlock bit his lip as his body slowly expanded around the intrusion.

“More. Faster. _Please_ ,” he begged.

“Hold on,” John instructed.

Sherlock clung to his neck as John unwound Sherlock’s legs from his waist. He caught his elbows under both of Sherlock’s knees; Sherlock leaned back and braced himself against the wall to improve the angle as his lover’s cock fully filled him.

Sherlock was lifted away as John’s hips withdrew; he drove back down as the shorter man slammed inside him again.

“YES!”

John growled something unintelligible, but repeated the action several times. It did not take long to establish a rhythm. Sherlock groaned his pleasure. He was so safe, so secure in John’s arms. He allowed his eyes to drift closed, his hand on his own prick. He was so close.

“Look at me, Sherlock,” John insisted, panting. “Open those beautiful eyes for me.” He buried himself in Sherlock’s body and ground into him for a moment. “I know you need to come. I want to see you. Come for me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock obliged and forced his eyes back open, surprised to see a smile on his lover’s face as he did. John managed to find the angle to maximise the pressure over Sherlock’s prostate — Sherlock howled and came. He held John’s gaze without wavering as his cock pumped out thin ribbons of white all over his own belly, and a little on John’s bright blue chest. He gasped as his muscles contracted, his body clamping down on John inside him.

“Sherlock, oh god…”

“You,” Sherlock insisted, grinding down onto John’s cock. “Now you.”

John pressed Sherlock’s back into the wall and thrust home hard. He slapped against Sherlock’s bottom relentlessly, muttering endearments. Finally, finally he gasped and stilled. He met Sherlock’s gaze once more.

Sherlock cried out as he felt the man’s thick shaft pulsing inside him. He curled forward to capture John’s mouth, licking and sucking desperately as they were joined together.

Finally, Sherlock began to sag as the last of John’s orgasm rippled through him. He clung helplessly to John’s shoulders until the man dragged him in close. He wrapped his arms around his superman’s neck, returned his legs to his waist, and held on.

“Bed,” John said firmly.

“Through the kitchen,” Sherlock mumbled, nosing at the hair above John’s ear.

“Right.” John clutched Sherlock tightly and moved them away from the wall. Still carrying Sherlock, John walked without wavering toward the open bedroom door, happily accepting kisses as he did.

Only when they’d reached the side of Sherlock’s bed did he finally allow Sherlock’s legs to unwind from around his waist. The taller man slid down until his feet touched the floor. He continued to drape languidly over John.

“All right?” John asked, rubbing the man’s back. “I know this is not something you normally do.”

Sherlock hummed. “Never really wanted to. Not until...”

“Until?”

Sherlock pulled back reluctantly, gazing down at his lover with a curious expression. “You. Of course.”

John beamed at him. “Was hoping you’d say that.”

Sherlock sighed and kissed the end of John’s nose. He glanced down at the blue and red and gold still keeping him from feeling every bit of John against him. “If you are planning on any further…activities…then I would say you might be overdressed.” He traced his finger over the bright gold “S” still adorning John’s chest. “What does it stand for?”

“Family crest,” John said softly, looking down to watch the deliberate movements of Sherlock’s finger. “Kryptonian.”

“Hmmm.” Sherlock dragged his hand over the smooth, strangely cool fabric of John’s…uniform. “Is it an initial? Because that would be remarkably convenient, given…”

“No, it isn’t an initial. It will not stand for Superman.”

Sherlock gave a non-committal shrug. “You’re still wearing too much. I want to see the rest of you. Fair’s fair.”

“Off?”

“Now, please.”

“Are you always this bossy?”

“Yes. Problem?”

John began shrugging out of the skin-tight fabric.

Sherlock was squinting at the red pants as John slid them to the floor.

“What?”

“So before —”

John chuckled. “Hidden flap. I do have to wee occasionally.”

Sherlock’s attention had drifted. His heated gaze was roaming over the expanse of John’s chest. “So remarkable. All that power in such an unassuming package.”

“Oh, well, thanks very much.”

“Unassuming but very, very sexy,” Sherlock amended. He backed toward the bed with his best come-hither look.

John was stepping out of his outfit, eyes locked on the traces of come now drying on Sherlock’s bare belly.

The journalist dropped onto the edge of the bed, noting his lover’s already half-mast cock. “I suppose that means you’re superhuman in other ways as well, then.”

John lifted Sherlock as though he weighed nothing and tossed him onto his back into the centre of the mattress. He immediately lowered himself over the taller man.

“Let’s find out.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after sheds new light...

Sherlock rolled awake slowly, yawning and rubbing at his eyes with one hand as he shifted onto his back. He winced a bit — arse still sore, then. He smirked at the thought.

He turned until he could just see the very top of his lover’s head peeking out above the heavy duvet. Sherlock pressed his lips into the man’s hair with a deeply contented sigh. It was sentimental, of course, but as long as no one was around to see it…

“Hmmmm?” John began to stir beneath the bedding. He shifted, retracting the arm that had been draped over Sherlock’s hip since their last round in the early hours of the morning. His face appeared above the duvet, eyes still closed. “S’matter? Shrlk?”

“Nothing, John,” Sherlock replied softly. “Sleep. Everything’s fine.” He dared another kiss, this time to John’s temple, before sliding from the bed.

Sherlock stretched, trying to work out the strains (and bruises, apparently) from the previous night’s rather vigorous lovemaking. It had been utterly glorious — ferocious and earth shattering. And it simply would have to be repeated somehow.

He slipped his dressing gown on before departing for the kitchen as he could hear Mrs. Hudson arriving with their tea. He closed the bedroom door behind him, not wanting to disturb John’s lie-in.

“Oh!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, turning from where she was setting the tea tray on the kitchen table. “I didn’t expect you to be awake so early.”

“No, I suppose not,” Sherlock agreed.

“John still asleep, then?”

“He is.”

Mrs. Hudson’s face lit up. “Wore him right out, did you? Well, it must have been quite a night!” She tutted as she started to leave. “Good thing I decided to spend the night at Rav’s.”

“Yes, very sensible,” Sherlock agreed with a tolerant smile. “Thank you for…playing along.”

The older woman winked, her hand resting on the doorframe. “My pleasure. Anything for young love.”

“Well, not exactly young. And last night — while based on the foundation of…affection…John and I have for one another — had nothing to do with ‘love.’”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Mrs. Hudson teased. She reached out and patted his arm then slipped through the door. He could hear her giggling to herself as she made her way back down the stairs.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock collected the tea tray at the mournful sound of his now-rousing flatmate and lover. He balanced the tray with one hand as he opened the bedroom door and poked his head through.

“All right?” he asked.

“I’m dying,” John moaned. He was now lying flat on his back, spread eagle.

Sherlock grinned as he pushed into the bedroom and then elbowed the door closed behind him. He crossed to the bed and set the tray down beside John then sat gingerly near the man’s thigh.

“Sorry to hear that,” he said lightly. “Tea?”

“Everything hurts. Everything. I’m pretty sure I’ve done my back in. My arms are like rubber and my thighs feel like I’ve climbed bloody Kilimanjaro.”

Sherlock poured them each a cup. He nodded, attempting a look of sympathy, as John continued his complaints.

“How the hell did I ever let you talk me into that?” the doctor asked, eyes scrunched closed again. “I mean, how? That has to be one of the most ridiculous things —”

“Afghanistan,” Sherlock reminded him, holding out a cup in John’s general direction while he took the first sip of his own.

John grunted, attempting to sit up in the bed. He groaned again as he slid his hips back so he could rest against the headboard. “Shit — I think I may need physio again.”

Sherlock watched him, a fond half-smile on his face. “John?”

The doctor took his cup and downed a huge mouthful of milky tea. “What?”

“Thank you.”

Their eyes met. At length, John broke down chuckling. “Yeah, all right, you lunatic. Bloody hell.” He took another sip of tea. “Honestly, I thought you’d slept through all of the Superman films, especially the 1978 one. You were still pretty weak when I brought you home from hospital.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked at the word “home.” “You have quite a collection of comic book hero films.”

John flinched. “I haven’t looked at them in a long while, but I needed something to, uh, pass the time.”

“Sorry. I-I didn’t mean to bring it up.”

John shook his head. “S’all right. I’m going to have to get used to thinking about it sooner or later.” He smiled up at the detective, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s free hand where it rested on the bed. “But I’ve got this now, too.”

Sherlock nodded. “I suppose…we haven’t been doing this for long. I imagine my request came as a bit of a surprise.”

“Say that again,” John laughed. “I’d never pictured you for role play.”

“But I love disguises,” Sherlock protested.

“Yeah, but, well, this was a little more than dressing up.”

“True.”

John smiled into his cup. “The shagging was fantastic, though.”

“It was. I may not be able to sit properly for a day or two.”

“Wrecked your arse, did I?”

“Indeed, you did,” Sherlock confirmed with a wicked grin.

John was trying very hard not to look pleased with himself. “The harness thing in the sitting room was a brilliant idea. And I do appreciate you doing your share of the weight-bearing.”

Sherlock reached out and rubbed over his doctor’s duvet-covered thigh. “Oh, it was my pleasure. You had to wear the outfit, after all.”

“Mmm,” John acknowledged around another mouthful of tea. “And when do I need to have that back to the fancy dress shop?”

“Don’t. I bought it.”

“You bought the Superman costume?” John repeated, incredulous. “You think I’m likely to be able to pull that off again? No chance, mate.” He shook his head vehemently, watching as the taller man shifted the tea tray to the floor. “No, if you want that one played out again, you’ll be the one in the blue and red leotard. And I’ll be damned if I stand out on Bart’s rooftop again pretending to fly while you take a trip in your Mind Palace.”

Sherlock returned his own cup to the tea tray and held his hand out for John’s. The doctor handed it to him, brow furrowed.

“What are you doing?”

Sherlock stood and let his dressing gown drop to the floor. He slipped under the duvet and crawled up the bed so he could settle into place up against John’s side. He tugged a little, and John obliged by shifting back down on the mattress. “I’m…cuddling.”

“Cuddling?” John choked out. “Since when do you do cuddling?”

Sherlock dropped his head into the crook of John’s good shoulder and draped one knee over both of the man’s legs. “Since right now.”

John was silent for a moment, finally wrapping his arm around Sherlock’s back. He sighed. “I don’t see why I have to be Superman.”

“Because outside of height and hair colour, you are — by far — the better match,” Sherlock insisted. “You are noble, self-sacrificing, heroic, brave, kind…”

“I cannot fly and I do not have superhuman strength,” John reminded him.

“The flying I will grant, but you do have a superhuman strength.”

“Ha!”

“Not superhuman physical strength, obviously,” Sherlock continued. He tapped his fingers on his lover’s exposed chest. “Like I said at the wed— like I said before, I am a thoroughly unpleasant man, and yet you tolerate me. You have a superhuman strength of character.”

John pulled back so they could look at one another. “I don’t tolerate you. I love you.”

“My point.”

John lifted his free hand to brush over Sherlock’s cheek. “How is it?”

Sherlock covered the scar on his chest with an open palm. “Fine.”

John nodded solemnly. “This can’t go on indefinitely. It’s already December. We’ll have to finalise a plan…”

“Shhh,” Sherlock soothed. “Not now.”

“Yeah. Okay.” John wrapped his other arm around the detective’s lean body and pulled him close. He dropped a kiss into Sherlock’s curls as they rested together.

Sherlock had nearly dozed off again when he heard it.

“I’ll wear it again. ‘Course I will. Anything. Anything for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grinned into John’s chest. “My hero.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, anybody hate me right now? Hopefully not :) Thanks for reading. As always: don't own, don't profit.
> 
> Peace and love!
> 
> * John likes to improvise ;)  
> ** The colour has no significance other than a) it would look so hot on him b) Sherl is a stickler for the details (see Superman [1978]).

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the wonderful wearitcounts for agreeing to beta for me :)


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